Scent of you
by IthildinGalad3
Summary: When Sherlock goes quiet in his room, John wants to know what he's up to. You know how people say something smells fishy? Not really.


**Hello all! For some of you who may have read my previous story from the XMen First Class fanfic universe, Heat, I apologise first of all. I admit I abandoned the story halfway (though it did end, in a fashion) because I quite frankly, ran out of ideas and time to finish off what I had in mind. **

**So I guess here is a fluffy little story from my new obsession, Sherlock, and my new OTP. Its inadequate but here is a BIG THANK YOU to everyone who took time to review my last story. I swear one day I WILL finish it. **

**Enjoy! **

"John."  
"Mmm."  
"John!"  
"Mmm?"  
"Pass me the newspapers."  
"Get it yourself, its right at your feet."  
"I'm thinking."  
"Give your brain a coffee break, then, try going out with your feet instead."  
"Pass. Me. The papers, John."  
"No, you lazy git."  
"Please."  
John slammed his book (The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern) on the side table with an irate noise.  
"Fine!"  
Getting up in a huff, he picked up the newspapers (which were scattered on the floor like so many pieces of grey and white, and yes, were right at Sherlock's bare and bony feet) and flung them at the mad detective's face.  
The papers flapped in the air with a sharp snapping sound, and it was followed by a growl of annoyance from Sherlock.  
Sherlock frowned at John, who had gone back to his sofa, and was reading intently again.  
"What was that? You could have just given them to me."  
John gritted his teeth, ignoring the baleful look.  
"Sherlock, you are this-" John indicated a space of less than a centimetre between his first finger and his thumb-"close to me punching you in the face."  
Sherlock had the decency to look abashed. "Sorry?" His attempt at an apology was tentative, at best.  
John glared. "Just read your damned papers."  
Sherlock stared at the top of his only friend's ash-blond head, noting the frown lines, and the tense fingers. He decided not to test John's temper, however, wisely so, but turned his attention to the headlines - "Murder Most Fowl!"  
It was an incredibly sensationalistic, ridiculous 'report' on a fifty-something office worker whose wife killed him by lacing his Christmas turkey with, of all things, Botox.  
The industrious and murderous woman had worked as a cleaner at a local cosmetic surgeon's practise, and had stolen several syringes worth of botulinum.  
Sherlock scoffed. "Dull. Poison is such a boring way to off someone."  
John looked up.  
"Peaceful," he corrected. "Blessed peace, and has been, for two days. My knees have been singing hosannas." He rubbed his left kneecap gingerly.  
Sherlock groaned. "How was I to know that you would not be able to cross the -"  
"Sherlock! It was four feet across! Only a giraffe, or a gazelle, or a- or a-" John sputtered , looking for the right word - "or a you, could cross that."  
Sherlock straightened, looking indignant. "My height has nothing to do with you getting trapped-"  
"Sherlock, for the last time. Me, book. You, quiet. Alright?"  
Sherlock, ever mutinous, pursed his perfect cupid's bows lips, and flounced off to his room in a huff, leaving John to shake his head and sigh.

"John."  
"No."  
"But you don't know what I want yet!"  
"Whatever it is I don't want to hear about it."  
"Jooooohhhnnnnnnnn."  
John leapt to his feet as he frowned down on all six feet of infuriating flatmate sprawled out on the couch.  
"No, I will not go swim in the Thames so that you can observe the effects of pollution on skin over a sixteen-hour period. No, I will not pour whatever it is in that bottle into Lestrade's drink. And NO, I will not buy you the chainsaw you saw last week- bad enough that you have a harpoon, you mad git!"  
Sherlock opened his blue-grey-green eyes just a sliver.  
"But think of what a chainsaw could do, John, it would be ever so useful," he drawled.  
John raised his eyes to the heavens, and asked whatever Gods there were to grant him patience.  
"Goodnight Sherlock."  
The detective opened his eyes fully. "But its still bright out. And I need sustenance."  
John stared. "You want to eat something. You."  
"Yes."  
"Fine."

A few hours of quiet, and a roast chicken later, John found himself at Sherlock's room door.  
He knocked gently. "Sherlock. I made food." There was no response. John pressed his ear to the door, and frowned.  
"Sherlock? Look, I'm sorry. Come eat something."  
Still silence.  
John sighed.  
"Fine. I'm just going to walk in, and I expect you to be decent and awake -"  
The door flung open, and John nearly fell through the doorway with a yelp.  
"What?" Sherlock demanded, in a voice that was all at once self-righteous and guilty.  
John blinked, a little owlishly it must be admitted. "Chicken. I made roast chicken." He gestured in the general direction of the kitchen.  
Sherlock stared, then nodded curtly.  
"Fine."  
John stared. Hard.  
"What were you doing in there? Never heard you being so quiet before," he said (his brain thought, heard, quiet, schyeah, regular Shakespeare you are Watson. Brilliant stuff)  
And damn it if Sherlock did not look guilty..er. Like a puppy that's been caught chewing his master's bedroom slippers.  
Like he'd been doing something he shouldn't.  
"Sherlock. What have you done? I know that face. Its the same face you wore the last time I caught you unravelling my favourite jumper so that you could use the string to strap up those decayed-"  
"Iwassmellingyourpillow."  
John stopped. His mouth hung open. He blinked once, twice, three times. He gaped. He looked so surprised that if Sherlock had danced in front of him wearing nothing but a tea-cosy over his naughty bits John could NOT have looked more surprised.  
You get it. John was baffled. Flabbergasted. Stunned.  
"You were what?"  
"Smelling your pillow. Didn't you hear me the first time?" Sherlock snapped, flinging the door open the rest of the way, and spun on his heels, his back to John.  
Damn it if Sherlock's toes weren't digging patterns into the carpet in a way that could only be described as sheepish.  
John approached Sherlock carefully, like one might approach an injured animal. "Sherlock. It's all fine, I've seen you do stranger things, like the time I caught you fondling -"  
"John!" Sherlock spun around, furious.  
John lifted his hands, palms outward, and lowered his eyes. "Alright, alright. It was an experiment, I know."  
Sherlock grimaced. "I like the way you smell, that's all," he offered shamefacedly.  
John grinned then, his face split in two. He pulled at Sherlocks hands, stood up on his toes, and grabbed a fistful of soft curly hair. He pushed Sherlock's head towards his neck, where Sherlock couldn't resist taking a deep, whooshing breath. He felt John shiver.  
"You smell... Like..."  
"C'mere."

"John."  
"Mmmm?"  
"I smell like you now."  
"Perfect."


End file.
